When the World Changed

Here's the latest chapter of the story. As always, it's fictional. As always, it might contain depictions of sexuality among teemagers, so if that's illegal where you live or not something you like, please leave now. Thanks as always to the readers who've been kind enough to send me notes, both complimentary and critical, and of course to Nifty, for providing a forum for fiction like this. If you don't contribute to support the site yet, you should start. I'll also plug (again) my other Nifty story, "Seal Rocks," in the HS section here but completed way back in April 2011. If you enjoy this story, you might enjoy it as well.

Thanks again.

When the World Changed, Part 35

On New Year's Eve, Brady sat with Hal and his mother and watched the ball drop in a frigid Times Square. His mother sighed a minute or two later and quietly excused herself. "I hope this year is a good one - all quiet and peaceful."

"Sure Mom," Hal answered. "This is going to be a real easy year. 1968."

After she went upstairs, Hal looked at Brady. "So, you want a beer to celebrate?"

Brady was surprised, but eager. "Uh, sure! Sure, that'd be great, thanks."

Hal tossed him a Schmidt's and a can opener. "They're behind the times. The big guys are starting to use pop tops now."

"Yeah," Brady said as he wedged the opener under the can rim, "Coke has them on all their cans now."

Brady had no experience opening beer cans, of course, and in his eagerness popped the can too quickly. His reward was a generous spray of foam onto his face and shirt.

Hal doubled over laughing. "I knew you were gonna do that!" He took the opener from Brady. "Here, this helps," he suggested. "You tap the top of the can a few times. It breaks up the bubbles in the carbonation a little - or it's supposed to, anyway. I don't know if it really works, but it can't hurt, right?" He rapped the top of the can lightly several times with the flat side of the opener, then slowly pressed the sharp tip into the top. Though the small puncture he made hissed loudly, no foam or liquid escaped, and after a couple of seconds, he completed opening the main hole without incident. "Vistory!" he shouted, and Brady couldn't help grinning with admiration as Hal spun the can to make a small air hole in the opposite side. He held his can aloft, smiling warmly. "Happy New Year, little brother."

Brady toasted him. "Happy New Year." He paused. "I love you, Hal."

Hal smiled, leaned in, and ruffled Brady's hair. "Love you too, kiddo." They drank.

Brady grimaced as he swallowed. "Ugh! How can it be watery and bitter at the same time?"

Hal shrugged. "What d'you expect, it's Schmidt's! Cheap piss beer from Philly." He took another long swig and stared at the can contemplatively. "You know, Dad always liked Ortlieb better."

Brady looked down, feeling suddenly guilty for reason he couldn't pin down. "Did, um, did Dad drink beer a lot?"

"No, not at all. Maybe a can or whatever on the weekend when he did yard work. He wasn't a lush or anything."

Brady nodded. He couldn't bring himself to say the next thing that came to his mind: Not like Mom.

Hal recognized the unspoken. "And, you know, Mom didn't drink much either. Before, that is. It just . . . . she hurts every day, Brady, you know that. The hurt'll never go away."

Brady swallowed some more bad beer. "But - but you hurt, too. And Trent."

"Course we do. All the time. Trent nearly beat the shit out of a bunch of people right afterwards - people trying to say how sorry they were. That was just his reaction. It was rage. Mom had to really talk hard to him, to get him to control it." He sighed deeply. "But yeah, I always think of him - his voice, his smile, how much he loved all of us. Especially you, Brady. God, you were his little angel."

Brady couldn't meet his brother's gaze. He blinked rapidly. "I - I don't remember his voice. I don't remember his face." He breathed raggedly and drank some more. "I -I ought to remember that stuff. I ought to remember him." He passed a hand across his eyes miserably.

Hal moved next to Brady on the floor, how arm around Brady's shoulder. "You remember him," he said quietly. "I know you do - because of how you feel right now. You might not remember specific things, but you remember the love. His love for you, and yours for him. And that's what counts." He pulled Brady into a sidelong embrace. "He'd be so proud of you."

Brady remembered his dream, and what he imagined his father's voice. What you're doing is unnatural, it had said. He bolted to his feet and strode into the kitchen, alarming Grouch in his corner bed next to the water heater. "He wouldn't be proud of me. He'd be ashamed."

Hal came after him. "What'd you say?"

"I said - sorry, I said I - I haven't done anything to be proud of. Not yet, anyway." The shame had to stay inside, hidden forever. He would know, Dad would know, but no one else. Even David had no idea of the extent of his shame.

"Bullshit, Brady. You're incredible, don't you see that? You're damn near a genius, you're going to this great damn school. We're all so amazingly proud of you."

Brady shook his head. "You're supposed to say stuff like that - you're my brother."

"Damn right I am. And I'm proud of that, too." He hugged Brady again, a hand in his hair. "It's OK to be modest and all, but don't beat yourself up like this. You're a good kid, OK?"

"OK." He finished off the can and set it on the sink. "I - I'm gonna go brush my teeth and get the taste of that stuff out of my mouth." In truth, he already felt a little lightheaded; his experience with alcohol was limited to the Southern Comfort Fieldstone had fed him, and this beer. "Gotta sleep, getting picked up in the morning."

"I forgot." Hal laughed a bit. "Farm work doesn't take holidays, right?"

Brady smiled, trying to go with the clichŽd joke. "Never." He patted Hal on the shoulder and went upstairs.

After he got cleaned up, he sat on the edge of his bed, swaying just slightly. He could hear the TV downstairs; Hal was watching some old thing on Million Dollar Movie. He breathed deeply, and took out the letter Trent had sent him for his birthday, to read again. The things Hal had told him about how the situation in Viet Nam was worsening - things he never heard on the news - had been gnawing at him.

Trent's letter was apparently innocuous enough: "Happy Birthday to my LITTLE brother!" it began. "This is No. 1 brother saying I love you, and don't you forget the No. 1 part!!!" Brady had to laugh at that every time he read it. He could never forget where Trent was in the pecking order. "Looking forward to celebrating your next birthday with you in person. Sorry I can't be there this year. But remember, I'm always there with you, birthdays and every day. You've done amazing things, and I know you'll grow up to be a fine and upstanding man. Our dad would be proud of you, like I am. Never forget how much I love you, or how proud I am of you."

A chilling thought now came to Brady. Was Trent saying goodbye, in case he got killed? Was that why he wrote it that way? The idea that Trent might be killed was always there, but it was somehow abstract, conceptual. Only a couple of times had the possibility become visceral, and this was one - the most intense by far. He suddenly imagined the funeral, his mother utterly broken, Hal inconsolable. And how did he feel? He couldn't feel grief, or sorrow, just wrenching fear. It couldn't happen, it mustn't. He read and re-read the letter, trying analyze each punctuation mark, smudging the writing on the bluish onion skin Air Mail paper. The beer had gone to his head, and he fell back onto his bed, rubbing his eyes, trying to breathe normally. He's saying goodbye, he doesn't think he'll make it. He has to make it. The fear and the guilt and the shame rolled over him, and the sleep that finally came gave him little rest. Hal had to shake him awake the next morning.

The last three days of break passed in a dull blur. Brady remained consumed with his dark thoughts, spoke little, ate less. He stayed home except for work at the stables. Each night he re-read Trent's letter, trying to divine all its hidden meanings. It was a relief to get back to Wilson again on Thursday.

Hal drove him back, early Thursday morning. His mother had to work, and since Hal was staying on for another week, their parting wasn't as wrenching as it had been in September. Brady also felt that it was becoming more of a routine - an accepted part of their lives. The pain was being scabbed over, like so much else had been. That notion didn't make him feel better, either.

The whole dorm was freezing cold. Apparently the only heat that had been left on over break was for the Masters in their apartments. A note on the door indicated that they'd start heating the place at noon. No one else seemed to be around on his hall, not even Billips, so he wandered over to the canteen. Closed. He stood on the worn steps for a minute, his breath condensing around him in huge clouds, and pondered where else he might go. The day was damp and cold, just above freezing, with a slight misty sleet falling.

He decided to try the gym. It too, was deserted, but at least it was warm. Johnny was sitting in a chair in the lobby, leaning back against the wall, a cigarette dangling from his lips. "Mr. Con-o-verrr!" he shouted with a grin. "What you doin' this semester?"

Brady smiled and leaned against the wall across from him, soaking in the warmth. "Dunno, Johnny. Maybe basketball, maybe winter track." The cigarette smell was familiar from home.

"You play basketball before?"

"Not really. Maybe shot a couple of times at a rim back home. Nothing, like, organized."

Johnny took a long drag, looking Brady over appraisingly. "Tough call. You're a fast one, that's fer sure. That works for either one. You gonna have a lot o' catchin' up to do in basketball, though. Lotsa these boys already played a lot o' organized stuff - leagues and all."

"Well, I don't mind learning," Brady said with a shrug. "It's not like I expect to be the big star or anything."

Johnny took his cigarette out for a moment, let his chair fall forward to the floor, and smiled. "You don't, do ya? I seen that all fall. You just happy t' play, ain't you?"

Brady shrugged again. "Well, you gotta try, right?" He decided in that moment to play basketball, even if it meant not being with Doug so much. Maybe that'd be for the best, anyway. Not like there was any hope there.

"So," Brady said, "Mr. Sorkiss is the freshman basketball coach?"

"That he is," Johnny answered, leaning back again to the wall and puffing away. "His second year here. Fresh outta college, someplace down in Carolina. Seems like a smart enough fella."

Brady grinned. "He better be if he's a teacher."

"You'd be surprised," Johnny replied with a grin of his own. His teeth were badly discolored from the tobacco. "Some fellas come in here, ain't got a lick o' common sense. Coupla years ago, faculty fella was runnin' a ski trip for some boys up to Camelback, put the boys to bed, went out and got t' drinkin', and crashed the school van goin' back to the hotel. Big hoo-haa over that one." He chuckled at the memory.

Yike," Brady said - the only reply he could think of.

"Well, varsity's practicing at two, if you wanna watch and see for yourself," Johnny said,, blowing out one last plums of smoke and stuffing the cigarette butt into a soda can at his side. "They played 'bout six games over break - coupla tournaments and such. Got another one comin' up Sunday."

"OK," Brady said. He still wasn't entirely certain of his decision. "Can't hurt, right?"

"Never does. Always discoverin' new things, that's what keeps ya fresh an' young. Like bein' round you boys. Keeps the piss an' vinegar goin' in me." He laughed, slammed his chair down on the concrete floor, stood and sauntered off to the equipment cage, lighting another cigarette as he went.

Brady wandered out onto the gym floor, now emptied of all the desks from exams, and looked around. One wall at the far end could be folded back to provide spectator seating for the pool, during swim meets. Backboards hung around the perimeter, marking off three short courts and the main larger one running perpendicularly to the short ones. A ball rested against a folded up set of bleachers to his right. Brady picked it up, dribbled awkwardly with his left hand, and threw up a halfhearted layup. It rolled around and fell off. He retrieved the ball and tried again. Another miss. Maybe this isn't such a good idea after all, he thought, suddenly fearing that he'd be embarrassed , looking so hapless. He tried again. As the ball slid through the netting, a voice rang out behind him.

"Do you play, Conover?"

He turned, startled, and found Mr. Lenihan, a science teacher for upperclassmen and the varsity coach, watching him. He was probably 6'5", still lean as if he could play himself. His hands were very large.

"Um, no, Sir, Never have. Just goofing around a little here."

Mr. Lenihan nodded. "Shoot a free throw."

Brady stepped to the line. "Both feet on the line, son. A little wider. Good. Now, use your legs." Brady crouched. "Not that much!' Mr Lenihan laughed, and Brady felt a flush. "It's OK, just relax, Bend your knees a little, and let the shot come up through your body. Don't just throw it at the rim with your arms."

Brady did so, and solely uncoiled as he let the shot go. It grazed the front of the rim and bounced away. "That's OK, you're still pretty stiff. A bit nervous?" Brady nodded. "Don't worry, I'm not going to throw you out of the gym or anything. Let's try it again." The reassurance helped Brady feel less self conscious as he retrieved the ball and stepped back to the line. This time, the shot hit the right side of the rim and ricocheted to Mr. Lenihan. "Here," he said, firing a chest pass at Brady, who caught it as much with his stomach as with his hands. "Pass it back, like I did." Brady did so, and almost immediately got the ball passed back. "Again, harder. Lazy passes get stolen." He snapped this one back to Mr. Lenihan, who regarded him for a moment. "Why don't you go change. We've got an hour before lunch."

The rest of the morning, Mr. Lenihan put Brady through a number of drills. Brady was awkward and uncertain, but determined not to complain or let his frustration show. He learned shooting form for a jump shot, some dribbling basics ("Need to work on the right hand, son. You have to be able to use your off hand," Mr. Lenihan admonished), some layup drills. He soon found himself surprisingly sweaty. "Let's see the vertical, now." He handed Brady a tennis ball. "Start at the foul line, just run and try to dunk it." Brady did so, leaped, and found he could throw the ball down through the basket. "Again." He did three more, finding it easier as he got used to it. Mr. Lenihan left the court for a moment, and returned with a softball. "Dunk this." Brady did so, but scraped the ball a little against the rim. "OK, now try it with the real ball."

Now Brady was nervous. "Can you palm it?" Mr. Linehan asked. He could, but just barely. After a few seconds the ball would slip from his grip. "That's fine, you don't have to hold it for long. Just relax and jump." Brady did, but the ball jammed against the side of the rim. "Try again. Relax." On the fifth attempt, Brady let the ball slip upward on his fingers, away from his palm, and managed to sneak it over the rim, barely flicking it downwards with his fingertips.

He was grinning as he landed. "Wow," he said.

Mr Linehan laughed. "wow, indeed, young man. How old are you?"

"14."

"When did you turn 14?"

"Right after Halloween."

"So two months past 14 and enough vertical to dunk. Has Mr,. Sorkiss worked with you?"

"No Sir, I haven't been sure I was going to play, or do winter track."

"I see." He frowned a bit. "Well, I'm biased, of course, but I don't think you'd like running outside in the snow in a track uniform. It gets cold." He grinned.

"I thought they ran indoors."

"Some places. But some just have wood tracks set up outdoors. Delbarton is like that. Forty year straightaway and then a banked turn. You run a forty yard dash there, no way you hold that turn, even with the bank. You're off the edge into the snowdrifts, if there are any. And up in Morristown, there's a lot more snow than here."

"Right," Brady said. He decided to risk a slight needle. "But like you said, you're biased."

Mr. Linehan laughed. "Damn straight! Tell you what, come back at one and let Mr. Sorkiss work with you a bit. I can spare him this afternoon. I'll need to get used to not relying on him to help with my boys anyway, now that the frosh team is going to start up. Sound good?"

"Sure, Sir, Thanks." He slipped off to shower ("Johnny, why is the shower room so freaking cold??!!" he bellowed, waiting for the hot water to reach him), and tramped through the snow to the dining hall.

Lunch was a sort of buffet: Some plates of cold cuts with some rolls and types of bread, a plate of hamburgers that looked like they'd been cooked the previous decade, Jell-o of indeterminate color, and large urns of coffee. Brady saw no other freshman, which disappointed him. Brandan McCracken waved to him, but he wasn't about to presume to sit with the seniors, so he plunked down at a table alone and chewed the rubbery burger as best he could. He recognized several of the Varsity basketball players - Parmenter, who was reputed to be a shot hungry guard; Green, a burly post player who was several inches taller than Brady; Tate, a rangy forward with an Afro that Brady knew wouldn't survive Dean Storman's first glance (and one of only five Negro students at Wilson that year); a few others whose names he couldn't remember. They all had the easy camaraderie of teammates, and Brady watched their interactions with a touch of envy. Things had been like that with his team, too. He missed that.

He was about to leave when Jack Spencer plopped down next to him. "Hey Brady! What's got you back here early? You playing basketball?"

Brady grinned at Jack - it was hard not to grin at Jack, who never seemed out of sorts in any situation. "Not really sure yet. I think so. But I'm like a total spazz at it, never played before."

"You'll catch on, don't worry. I heard you dunked this morning!" he grinned.

How the hell does he know that already, Brady wondered. "Well, yeah, sort of. But just running from the foul line, not like dribbling or like in a game or anything."

"That's major hops, Brady! On a freshman team, you're gonna be a beast inside jumping like that!"

Brady blushed and shrugged. "Ah, I dunno. I got no idea what I'm doing." But it felt good to hear that, especially from Jack. Everyone knew Jack was the biggest and best athlete in his class.

He felt really self conscious when he stepped back into the gym a bit later, as the varsity team ran a layup drill. Jack saw him and waved. Mr. Linehan nodded at him, indicating he should sit in the one set of bleachers that was partially rolled out. Mr. Sorkiss nodded as well, but spent the next half hour working with guards on dribbling and defensive footwork. He was hard nosed with them.

He was watching Jack work with Mr. Linehan on boxing out for rebounding when a ball bounced close to his feet. He started, and turned to see Mr. Sorkiss grinning at him. "There, got your attention. Come on over to the far end, let's play around a bit."

After some basic dribble and shot work. Mr. Sorkiss walked toward the basket and tossed the ball to Brady, who was standing at the top of the free throw circle. "Ok," he said. "One on one. Score on me."

As Brady picked up the ball, Mr. Sorkiss was suddenly pressed up against him, arms wide and waving. Legs far wider than Brady's stance. Brady flinched back. "Don't move the pivot foot, that's traveling."

Brady turned his back, holding the ball as far away from Mr. Sorkiss' probing arms as he could. "What the hell am I supposed to do?"

"Do something or I'm gonna steal that." And he poked the ball from Brady's hand. Brady managed to reach it before Mr, Sorkiss, and held it again, facing him now. Why not, he thought, and with a shoulder fake to the right, he powered down the land left handed, using all his speed. He gathered himself, leaped toward the rim, and shot. From nowhere Mr. Sorkiss' hand appeared above the ball and slapped it away. "That was a good first step, you had me beat. But you held the ball out for me - 'Take it! Take it' you might as well have said. Try again."

They continued at this for about ten minutes, with Brady unable to get a basket. He was getting angry. This time, as he drove, he felt Mr. Sorkiss' chest against his back. He slowed, pushed back, and worked Mr. Sorkiss closer to the basket. As he turned, his body pushed Mr. Sorkiss aside, and he had an easy jump shot for a basket.

Mr. Sorkiss laughed. "So you've found out you can muscle inside!" He heard a couple of the varsity players hoot. Jack Spencer, who apparently has been watching, was clapping. "Good. Now you defend."

Mr. Sorkiss held the ball as Brady assumed the defensive position he'd just been taught. It was similar to a ready position he'd been taught for football, so it felt reasonably comfortable to him. Mr. Sorkiss looked into his eyes, then to the rim. He twitched upward as if to take a jump shot, and Brady leaped skyward. But there was no jump shot. Instead, Mr. Sorkiss dribbled past him as he hung in the air, scoring a layup. "Got to be ready for the shot fake." They lined up again. Mr. Sorkiss again flinched upward. Brady stayed firmly on the ground - so firmly that, when Mr. Sorkiss in fact rose up to take a smooth, long armed jump shot, Brady had little to do but watch as the ball swished through the net. "But you also have to watch the shot itself. You have to be ready for both."

Brady was embarrassed, and angry. Why are you showing me up in front of Jack and all these upperclassmen? They readied themselves again. When Mr. Sorkiss drove after a fake, Brady moved laterally with him. As he rose to shoot, Brady leaped with him. The ball and Brady's hand met at the apex of their respective jumps, and Brady pushed it back down as hard as he could. The follow through pushed Mr. Sorkiss backwards, and he fell on his butt, the ball skittering away. More of the varsity players hooted.

"OK," Mr. Sorkiss said with a laugh. "Good block, but you fouled me by following through into my body on the way down. You don't need to flatten somebody in this sport, just block the shot. As a basketball player, right now you're a good football player," he grinned. Brady had to laugh at that line. "You're doing fine, don't get frustrated or upset. I can see how much you want to do it right. It takes a lot of practice, OK?"

Brady spent the next hour dribbling a weaving course around a number of small traffic cones Mr. Sorkiss set up, first with his left hand, then (far more slowly) with his right. He was surprised how much his right arm and hand began to ache.

He decided to stop. Shaking his right arm out, he again became conscious of the varsity players working on the main court. They were now playing an aggressive five on five game, shirts vs. skins. He was suddenly conscious of how attractive the guys without shirts were, their smooth bodies glistening with perspiration, their long subtle muscles flexing as they moved with balletic grace. He turned quickly to avert his eyes. Had anyone noticed?

He took a long, hot shower, alone. He resisted the urge to jerk off, despite the fresh memory of the Varsity biys shirtless in his head. As he walked back toward Linsley, he felt the dampness in his hair freeze in the windy air. By the time he pushed through the front door, it felt like dry straw.

He pulled up short. Ian McShane was standing outside the door to what had been his room. They stared at each other for a long moment. Ian seemed embarrassed to see Brady, or indeed to even be there, back in the dorm. At the scene of his crime. His cheeks flushed visibly as he stared at Brady (whose own cheeks were so flushed from the walk in the cold that his own blush was impossible to notice).

McShane seemed unable to look Brady in the eye. "Hello, Conover. You're, uh, you're back early."

Brady had to reach for something to say. "Um, yeah. I am. I - not much else to do at home, right? And - and the - the teams, and all -"

"Yeah, I get that." Ian seemed even more crestfallen at the mention of the teams. "They, uh, they're not gonna let me be in sports this semester."

Brady blinked. He realized at once how much that meant to Ian. "Oh. I, um, I'm sorry."

"Yeah. Well, I guess I'm lucky. I mean I get to come back, right?"

"Sure." So many question whirled through Brady's head that he couldn't think which one to ask first - or if he dared to ask any of them. "So, how're you doing?" he finally managed.

Ian snorted - a pale version of his previous contemptuous self, but this time visibly self directed. "Oh, I'm great, Conover. I'm just fucking wonderful."

A slender blond kid emerged from Ian's room at this point. "Hullo," he said in a distinct British accent. "One of your mates, then, Ian?"

Ian glanced sideways at the boy. "Um, yeah. This is Brady. Brady Conover. This is Adrian Barrett. He's my roommate this semester."

Adrian stepped forward, grinned - revealing a decidedly uneven set of teeth - and shook Brady's hand vigorously. "Very happy to know you, Brady. I'm here for the rest of term, on exchange from Ipswich. That's in Somerset, if you don't know, Eastern England, on the River Orwell. Not named for George, of course." He seemed to find this amusing.

Ian stood back, looking a bit morose.

"Glad to know, you, Adrian," Brady answered, putting on his best smile. "I'm sure Ian will, uh, get you all like acquainted with stuff really fast. Right, Ian?"

"I'm sure. What form are you then?"

"Form?"

"He wants to know what year you are, Conover," McShane said with no small level of irritation. Exactly who or what he was irritated at, Brady couldn't be sure.

"Oh. I'm a freshman. We're all freshman in this dorm - except the Prefects."

Adrian nodded. "Right, should have sussed that out myself. Sorry. Not many fellows round yet, are there?"

"Um, I guess not. I just got back a little while ago, was over at the gym." He felt a momentary pang of regret for mentioning that in front of Ian. "I, uh, I haven't really checked around to see if anyone else is back yet." He looked at Ian. "Jack is, he's uh, practicing," and again he felt embarrassed. "But that's all I know."

"Right," Adrian chirped, seeming quite pleased with just about everything. "Well, someone's here up above. I heard "Disraeli Gears" in the stairwell a bit ago. Nice to know fellows are abreast of things here. I managed to see Cream a couple of months ago down in Colchester. Quite the experience."

"Yeah I can imagine - wait, where'd you hear that from?"

"I think Hennessey's back," Ian said. His voice had an odd monotone to it.

If Dunc was back, maybe Doug was too! Brady bolted for the stairs. "Gotta go! Great to meet you Adrian!" He paused. "And, um, glad to see you, Ian."

"No you're not."

They stared at each other for a second, before Ian turned back into his room, Adrian following, looking perplexed.

Brady stood alone in the hall for a moment before he exhaled. He took the stairs very slowly.

His room, and indeed the entire hall, still was empty, and chilly. He kept his coat on and trudged up to the third floor. Dunc was definitely back - He had music blasting loud enough for Brady to make out lyrics from a floor below - but he somehow wasn't interested in saying hi just then. He felt Doug wasn't back yet - he just knew, as he bounded up the stairs, that the quest was in vain. He trotted back down, closed himself in his room, sat down, and stared at the empty side across from him. David's side. Only when the music ceased, and he realized the time, did he rouse and hurry off for dinner.

The sidewalks weren't well shoveled; his feet got wet on the way to Geiger and the dining hall. The lamps along the slushy sidewalks gave only faint light through the freezing mist. The hall was again mostly empty. Many of those who had returned hadn't finished their respective practices - they'd be along in another half hour or so. Dinner was again buffet style in light of the sparse attendance. Brady idly grabbed some sandwich material and sat, lost ion his thoughts. "Did you see him?" Dunc slammed a tray down next to Brady, his hair tousled, his eyes wide. "He's fucking back! I don't believe it."

Brady chewed on whatever meat was inside the sandwich. It was stale, a bit stiff. "Yeah," he breathed after he finally got the mess swallowed. "I saw him." He took another breath. "He - he has a roommate now, I guess."

"I mean what the actual fuck, Brady??? How can they let that asshole come back here after everything?" At that moment Brady saw Ian walking slowly into the dining hall, alone, and looking very small. Conversation faded as the boys who were there (and seemingly the kitchen staff as well) stopped to stare at him. He took a small plate of food and sat far in a corner, alone.

Dunc snorted and returned to his food, shoveling mouthfuls angrily and too fast, so that he spilled food onto his plate and shirt. After about three swallows, he began hiccupping rapidly. "Fucking dammit," he gasped between spasms. He grabbed a glass of water, drank deeply, and promptly choked on that as well. Brady managed to dodge the resulting spray. "Christ!!!" Dunc shouted furiously.

"That will be enough of that, Mr. Hennessey," Dean Storeman's voice cut through the laughter at Dunc that had started to rise among the boys. "I suggest you maintain your manners a bit better."

"Sorry, Sir," Dunc muttered. The hiccups weren't quite gone yet.

Dean Storeman sat at their table, handing Dunc a dish towel. "Better clean this up, son. Not fair to have the kitchen staff do it, correct?"

"Yes, Sir. I mean no Sir. Of course." Dunc, looking miserable, wiped down the table, gathered the tray and his utensils, and moped off to hand them in for washing.

Dean Storeman glanced about. They were quite a distance from anyone else. "I suppose I caught you a bit too late, Mr. Conover," he said quietly.

"For what, Sir?" But he knew damn well for what.

"Mr. McShane's return, of course. No need for us to be coy about any of this."

"Yes, Sir. I was - I was surprised, I guess you could say."

"I can imagine. I assume Mr. Tanner isn't back yet?"

"No, Sir. I - does he know - "

"Yes. I had a long discussion by telephone with him and his father late last week, when this was being finalized. You can imagine his reaction."

Brady dropped his head. "Yes, Sir. I sure can."

Dean Storeman nodded, looking about again to be sure they weren't being overheard. "And I'm sure you're having much the same reaction. Now, I want you to hear me out. Ian -" he nodded slightly towards McShane, who was still by himself in a far corner of the dining hall "- has been through quite a lot since he left here. His parents are divorcing, and from all I can tell his mother is in a real fight on just about every subject with his father."

"That I can imagine," Brady whispered.

Dean Storemen nodded. "And then, of course, Ian himself has been in therapy. " That got Brady's attention. "What he endured was - well, it was criminal. Literally so. In fact, that's the major leverage that his mother has in all the arguments that have sprung up with Ian's father, as I understand things - the fact that she might take matters to the authorities. My point, son, is that I truly don't believe Ian is the same boy you knew in the fall. I hope that he's changed, and for the better. But he's going to need help in changing. And in having the other boys accept that change. He's still very fragile, on many levels." The notion that Ian McShane could be "fragile" struck Brady as the most extreme bullshit he'd ever heard. "This is not going to be easy for him - coming back here, facing all of you again -"

Brady's voice rose. "Then why do it? His family can get him into any school they want. Mom, dad, whatever. Look how Douggie got into Dunston so fast! Why does he have to come back here?" Storeman waved a hand, shushing him. "I mean, David - "

"Ian insisted. He apparently had, er, quite the argument, with his mother and his doctors. I'm not privy to all of the details, but he was very insistent. You should know," he continued, shifting closer to Brady, "that Dr. Leeds, Dr. Larrimore, and I all had several long conversations with Mrs. McShane, and with Ian, before Dr. Leeds decided to agree to his return. This was not a casual decision. Nor," raising his hand as Brady started to object, "was this decision motivated by any financial considerations. I know a lot of boys will think that, but it wasn't. I frankly doubt that Mrs. McShane will be in a position to do anything much beyond paying tuition for a year or more, while all the legal issues of her divorce are straightened out. As I said, the proceedings appear to be, well, contentious." He laid a hand on Brady's forearm. "I want you to know all this, son, because I know how directly this impacts you. I've told all this, and perhaps a bit more, to Mr. Tanner and his family as well. And to David, of course. I've asked them, and I'll ask you, to keep it all to yourself. There's going to be quite enough conversation, and gossip, about this whole thing as it is. For everyone's sake - and especially for Ian's - I think the less said the better."

And I should care about doing anything for Ian's sake, Brady thought for a moment. "I understand, Sir," he finally managed to say. "I won't say anything."

Dean Storeman patted Brady's forearm and stood up. "I felt you'd understand. That's why I decided to take you into my confidence on this. I'm sure you won't let me down," he added, looking very intently at Brady for a second, then relaxed into his characteristic alarming skull-like smile. "So what sport are you going to grace us with this semester?"

"I guess, basketball, Sir. I've never really played before, though. I'd kind of like to try track, too, but I guess I can't be in both."

"Well, talk to the coaches. Perhaps you can run in some meets on days when they don't conflict with basketball, and vice versa. If you're only on freshman teams, I'm sure something can be arranged." He turned to leave. "Enjoy your semester, Mr. Conover. You've earned that." He stood, and paused a moment. "And congratulations on your grades last semester."

"Thank you, Sir."

As Brady finished his now cold food, Dunc returned to the table, with Jack Spencer close behind. "So what'd Storeman say? Did he talk about McShane? What'd he say?" They both leaned forward eagerly.

Brady shifted uncomfortably. "Just - that he's back. I mean, obviously, right?" He glanced across the hall, and saw McShane watching him steadily, poker faced. Their eyes locked for several seconds, before Ian dropped his head back to the food he had apparently only picked at.

"C'mon, Brady, what the fuck is going on?" Dunc insisted.

"I wish I knew. I really do, Dunc." Brady sighed, rubbing his face. "I know Ian's got a roommate now - an exchange kid from England. Met him when I got to the dorm. Adrian, something, I think. I - I dunno." He shook his head, staring at the winter blackness outside the dining hall windows. "I don't know about any of it."